


Cupid Cat

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, M/M, Mild Smut, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft's Hands, No Eurus Holmes, No Mary Morstan, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Tissue Warning, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-29 11:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A cat insists on visiting 221B Baker Street. Sherlock can't stand it and it can't stand anybody. But then Mycroft pays them a visit.





	Cupid Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChamomileTeaPages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChamomileTeaPages/gifts), [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).

> The second fulfilment of ContinentalBlue's prompt of giving them pets that one likes but not the other one. Let me know what you think! :)

“Why is it here again?!”

“Shhh. She can hear you…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's a bloody _cat_, John. I don't _care _if it can hear me. So…?”

“She just likes to be here.” John reverently stroked over the back of the large brown-black cat with the tufted ears that was sitting next to his hair even though he should have really known better by now, and just like Sherlock had expected, he hissed and pulled his bleeding hand away a moment later.

Sherlock smirked at him. “Oh, yes, and it's a precious little thing, isn’t it?” The cat gave him the most scornful look he had ever got (and this included Donovan and even Mycroft!). “It hates us all anyway, just throw it out.” He glanced at the healing scratches on his own hand. He hadn't got them because he had tried to stroke the nasty thing but because he had wanted his chair for himself two days ago…

“Oh, Sherlock, you heartless creature,” Mrs Hudson scolded him. She put the tray she'd been carrying on the living room table. “She's just a poor little thing who needs someone to take care of her.”

“Oh please. Every idiot can see it's not a stray. It's well-fed and healthy and perfectly groomed. It clearly has a home, and a good one, so there's no reason for it to haunt us.” And all it did was sitting around and eating and drinking and throwing arrogant looks at everybody. Nobody was allowed to touch it. It didn’t seem frightened when someone tried. It looked as if it just _hated_ it.

Mrs Hudson glowered at him. “But she prefers staying with us, in my house, so get used to it!”

“I pay the rent for this flat and I say it goes!” thundered Sherlock.

“Well, I pay half of it, too, if you might remember, and I say she stays!” John retorted.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Let it scratch you up from head to toe if you want, but don't whine if you catch a disease or wake up with fleas!” He knew the cat didn't have any fleas but it sounded good.

John snorted. “Living with _you_ is way more dangerous. At least Bonnie won't set my clothes on fire or put acid in my coffee!”

“That was an accident!” And ‘Bonnie’! ‘Harpy’ or ‘Cruella’ would have been a much more fitting name!

“Be quiet!” screeched Mrs Hudson and then gasped when the cat ran out of the flat. “See what you've done!”

Sherlock let himself drop into his chair. “Mission accomplished!” he stated with glee but frowned when two pairs of eyes glowered at him now. It was a stupid _cat _for God's sake and it wasn't even theirs! People!

*****

“Sherlock… We have a visitor…” John sounded a bit impatient.

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. “I heard that.”

“And…?”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft. What do you want?”

“Good morning to you, too, little brother,” Mycroft retorted in this annoying, long-suffering tone.

“Nothing's good about it… Oh wait… At least the bloody cat hasn't come back!”

“It's no wonder, considering how nasty you were yesterday!”

“Gentlemen. Could we please focus?”

“On what, brother dear? On your growing belly?”

Mycroft sighed this time and Sherlock got up from the kitchen chair, seeing his brother standing in the living room with the inevitable folder in his hands. And no, he didn’t have a big belly. In fact he looked slimmer than ever. But telling him that wouldn’t have been funny, would it? “No, Sherlock. On this case.” He sat down in Sherlock's armchair without having been invited.

“This is _my_ chair!” Sherlock said, sounding a bit childish to his own ears.

“Take the client's chair then,” John said, sounding rather resigned.

“Why don't _you_ take it?” Sherlock shot back.

“Because nobody is sitting in my chair,” John said with the kind of grin Sherlock would have loved to slap off his face and sat down.

Sherlock took a deep breath and walked over to the visitor's chair to let himself drop onto it with a tad more force than necessary. That wasn't right! _He_ was the detective! And if Mycroft thought he was so unimportant, he could as well solve his stupid case on his own! Which he could anyway, couldn't he? Why did he even bother him with it? “What is it this time, Mycroft? An agent who can't find the way home?”

John chuckled and Sherlock almost forgave him.

“No, in fact it… Oh…” Mycroft stopped with a very comical expression and seemed to want to crawl into his chair.

“Damn,” John said. “She's never done that!”

Sherlock giggled. “Cat hairs on an Armani suit, what a disgrace!”

“Whose cat is that? What does it want?” Mycroft gaped at the pet on his thighs.

Bonnie, all longhair feline elegance, stepped from one delicate foot to the other, but to Sherlock's disappointment she didn’t use her claws on him. In fact she stared up at Mycroft's face, doing something else she had never done before.

“Fuck, she's purring! Thought she couldn’t do that.” John was amazed.

“You have an admirer, brother. Come on, stroke it.” Sherlock gave his brother a dirty grin.

“She'll scratch you, rather don't,” John warned him – and then he gasped when Bonnie nudged her head against Mycroft's arm. “I fucking don't believe it…”

“Oh, Mr Holmes. Do touch her. She demands it.”

Nobody had heard Mrs Hudson coming in. Sherlock thought she had a point. The damn cat really seemed to crave Mycroft's attention.

The politician gave the old lady a doubtful look before he gingerly reached out and briefly touched the cat's back. Bonnie miaowed loudly and gave him a stern glance, a clear demand to go on, and eventually Mycroft started stroking her from her head to her twitching tail and she miaowed even louder.

“Dammit, Mycroft, you're a cat whisperer!” John said reverently.

“Never thought you had so much luck with women,” Sherlock mocked, knowing his brother was as gay as he was, and rather desperate about a certain woman’s attentions.

Mycroft shot him a glare and continued to stroke the cat. The folder had slid from his knees and was lying on his feet. He didn’t seem to care at all, his long fingers now scratching Bonnie's head.

_What nice hands he has_, Sherlock thought, blushing a second later. He looked at his own hand. It was rather appealing, too. Long, edgy fingers, a huge palm, the hands of a violinist.

But Mycroft's fingers… They were almost feminine, long and rounded, and Sherlock caught himself staring at their movements, mesmerised.

A few minutes later Bonnie had enough. She jumped from Mycroft's lap and made a harsh noise at Mrs Hudson, who hurried to the kitchen to get some goodies for her.

“So,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “back to the case.” He gathered his papers.

Sherlock tried to listen to him but it was difficult because the image of these delicate hands caressing soft fur didn’t vanish from his mind, and he was terrified when he realised he was wondering how it would feel to be touched like this by them.

*****

Sherlock sighed when he looked at the door-knocker. But didn’t he rather do it because it was the usual thing to do and John was expecting him to do it? Was he really so exasperated that Mycroft was waiting for them in their flat? He shooed these disturbing questions away instantly.

“Seems your brother can't wait to be told about the case,” John remarked when they entered the house, both sweaty and exhausted after a long day of solving crimes of one kind or another. “Or perhaps he just came to pet our pet,” he added with a chuckle.

“We do not _have_ a pet,” Sherlock snarled, stalking up the stairs, and then he stopped dead when he had burst into the living room.

“Damn, isn't that cute?” John breathed without any audible irony.

“We all know how much you like pussies,” Sherlock mumbled, making John tut half-amusedly, half-admonishingly, and he really didn’t know why his pulse was so fast now. From running up the stairs after this strenuous day, obviously.

Mycroft was sitting in his armchair again, the cat on his lap, purring like an engine, and his brother looked both pleased and sheepish. “Sherlock, Doctor Watson. Do you have news for me?” he asked, his cheeks reddening slightly.

“You're really here for the case?” John asked before Sherlock could open his mouth. “You could have called.”

“Why else would I be here?” Mycroft didn’t sound overly convincing.

“To get some cuddles, perhaps?”

“Nonsense!” But his long fingers continued to rhythmically and very gently caress the shiny fur and the cat was making almost indecent noises. If it started to rub its, its... _intimate parts_ at Mycroft, Sherlock would flee his own flat!

John chuckled and explained what they had found out, while Sherlock was sitting on the couch, not saying a word. His gaze was glued to Mycroft's hands, and he could feel goose bumps covering his arms and thighs. This was disconcerting to say the least! It was strange enough to watch his brother spoil a cat, the cat that hated humanity but obviously adored icemen above all, but to imagine his _[soft elegant beautiful amazing]_ long fingers would be doing the same to him instead, was insanity!

And all at once Sherlock realised that a certain part of him had started to take most inappropriate interest in Mycroft's doing and was threatening to burst his trousers. Could it get any worse? What kind of an asexual, devoted-to-logic-and-married-to-his-work man was he, getting a boner from watching his own brother fondling a bloody cat! The earth may open up and swallow him, because if John or Mycroft noticed his state, he would be doomed. But neither of them paid much attention to him. John proudly blathered about how they had solved Mycroft's boring case and Mycroft was focused on the purring, wiggling menace on his lap. At least _he_ had not reacted to what he was doing in certain ways, Sherlock realised with some relief.

The next moment he felt Mycroft's gaze on his face and couldn’t help but blush furiously. He got up abruptly and accidentally pushed against the table, making the cat hiss at him and jump from Mycroft's thighs to run out of the flat with its tail straight in the air, giving him a deadly look out of these irritating green eyes that looked so much like his own, which he realised for the first time.

“So, you see we've solved your boring case and you can go as we've had a very long and unpleasant day and are in dire need of a shower and some dinner. You didn’t bring anything by any chance?” That was a low blow and he knew it when Mycroft looked guilty all at once.

“No, apologies.”

John cast Sherlock a confused look before he turned to Mycroft again. “Never mind, he actually never craves for dinner so how should you have known His Majesty is hungry. You should have said something so we could stop at Angelo's and…”

“Never mind, John. Beans and toast will do. Want to stay to share our opulent meal with us?” he asked his brother and Mycroft bit his lip.

“That's very nice of you but I have to go. Thank you for your assistance. I will make sure a sufficient amount of money will be transferred to your account.”

“We don't want…”

“That would be very nice, Mycroft,” John interrupted Sherlock with a look that resembled the one the cat had given him. “And if you need our help again, you know where to find us.”

“He surely does,” Sherlock mumbled but nobody graced him with an answer.

Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and left after a quiet 'good bye', not even bothering to remove the cat hairs from his trousers.

“Why are you always so bloody mean to him?” John asked Sherlock when the door of the flat had closed behind the older man.

“I did solve his case, didn’t I? And I didn’t even want to be paid for it.”

“And what a great idea _that_ was! _He_ doesn’t pay us, Sherlock, not that he couldn’t afford it anyway. It's the government and I bloody pay enough taxes to not work for it for free!”

Sherlock just grumbled something and John made an impatient gesture, snorted and left the room, probably to keep himself from saying something mean to _him_ now. Sherlock didn't bother. He had something else to bother about…

*****

A part of Sherlock knew he was dreaming but the larger part of his conscience didn't want to believe it, let alone wanted to wake up because this just felt so bloody great.

_He was lying on his bed, like he really was, but he wasn’t being covered by a blanket but by a warm body, soft skin was touching his, warm lips were caressing his neck and those hands, those gorgeous, fascinating hands were sliding all over his chest and stomach and Sherlock wanted to purr and mewl and melt into this touch and then long fingers were wrapped around his aching cock, pressing it firmly, stroking up and down…_

And then Sherlock shot up from his sleep, hissing and panting, his hand still clamped around his throbbing erection, his other one reaching out to grab the fucking cat, which had somehow come into his flat and into his bedroom and scratched up his arm, and now it was sitting on his bed, teeth bared, and gave him a look that would have looked insane on a human. And insane it was, the darn cat!

Cursing, Sherlock let go of his shrinking cock and touched his injured arm, feeling blood under his fingers. “I’m going to kill you!” He wouldn’t, of course, not that he thought the cat would give him the chance, but it sucked to be woken up like this from a dream! From _this_ dream...

The cat made a strange noise that bloody sounded like a contemptuous laugh and jumped from the bed to walk straight out of his room without wasting another look at him and without any hurry.

Sherlock let himself drop back into the pillows, his pulse still elevated. What was happening to him? How had he ended up having sex dreams about his brother? His… brother… This cat had brought this over him, had tempted Mycroft to show a side Sherlock had not seen of him for a very long time. The caring, tender side.

He recalled how Mycroft had cuddled their beautiful dog, Redbeard, and how he had cuddled him, too… Little Sherlock with his never-ending curiosity, always around his brother when he was home, asking questions, demanding attention… And Mycroft had always done him the favour. Chubby, introverted Mycroft, always caring for his little brother, always willing to share his wisdom with him, and to do research if he, very rarely, couldn’t answer his questions right away.

Time and inevitable developments had brought them further apart with every year as soon as Mycroft had gone to university at a very young age and soon started to work his way through the ranks of the British government. Feeling betrayed and neglected, Sherlock had treated him with more and more contempt and had rejected his attempts at repairing their brotherly bond.

Was that really all that had happened though? Glimpses of an adult, good-looking Mycroft, coming home to visit, appeared in Sherlock’s mind. He had started to feel strangely intimidated by his brother, who had never treated him in any way as bad as he had, who had tried to support him and despaired rather than grew impatient and angry at Sherlock's detour into the world of substance abuse. Mycroft might believe that caring wasn’t an advantage but probably he only thought so because Sherlock had not thanked him for his care for him in the least over the past decades.

And now Sherlock was pining for him in ways he had never thought possible, and it disturbed and confused him to no end.

He pulled the blanket up to his throat, trying to force himself to fall asleep again. This was too much, too weird, too horrible to even think about – Mycroft would be horrified at his crazy desires. He had to forget them, period, and focus on his work. Work was good. Work was his saviour. Alone protected him. Sentiment was a chemical defect.

Fuck… He wasn’t _in love_ with his brother, was he? The thought alone was ridiculous. Terriyfing. Scary...

He didn't fall asleep again in this night.

*****

“Man, what a day. Care to give us a ride, Greg?” John rubbed his wet hair and Sherlock thought he was looking like a wet hedgehog.

The DI nodded at once. “Of course. Can’t let my two best men get soaked in this horrible weather any longer. Come on, Sherlock.”

“You know I never enter police cars,” Sherlock refused. “I’m going to walk.”

“Walk?!” John looked at him as if he had turned into Snow White. “You never walk, we’re bloody far away from home and it rains like mad in case you missed it.”

Sherlock had not missed it of course. His hair was glued to his forehead and his clothes were soaked, too, even his underpants were unpleasantly cold and clinging to his delicate parts and his shoes made squelching noises when he walked. They had spent all day with chasing and eventually catching a murderer who had killed two men in two different parts of London; he was exhausted, his clothes smelled like a fox and he was hungry. But he shook his head. “Go with Lestrade. I need time to think.”

“About what? And why can’t you do that in the car and when we’re at home?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” retorted Sherlock, and it probably sounded haughty, but in fact _he_ didn’t understand it so how should John? Not that he could tell him anyway. “Go. Lestrade is waiting.” And with this he stalked down the dark street, putting his coat collar up, ignoring the DI and his friend who were shouting after him.

He wanted to be alone, he definitely needed to think, but when he was walking into a certain direction, his brain was feeling numb and he shuddered in the pouring rain, his legs freezing, and he assumed his nose was ready to fall off anytime, but he walked and walked, faster with every step, and he avoided thinking of where he was going with all he had.

*****

There was light in two rooms so he was at home. Well, it was eight pm, even Her Majesty’s most sought-after slave had to be free to go home to get a bit of rest eventually.

What was he doing here? Standing in front of his brother’s house, his lashes heavy with drops of the still relentlessly falling rain. He should go home. Take a bath. Eat something. Forget this insanity.

He turned to leave even though his feet almost refused to move. And he had forced himself to make three steps when the door opened up behind him. Sure… There were cameras above the door.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

_Trying to escape from turning myself into the biggest idiot in history… _“Nothing. Good night.” But he had stopped walking and stood frozen on the spot, still facing away from his brother.

“Come in, please. You are soaked.” Mycroft sounded cautious and confused but the care in his voice was evident. Always the caring big brother…

Sherlock knew he should leave or rather not have come here in the first place. But his feet begged to differ and turned and a moment later he slipped into the warmth, and Mycroft hastily closed the door behind him, and Sherlock wondered if he did it because he was afraid the coldness and the rain could follow him or that Sherlock would change his mind and walk away. And why was he hoping it was the latter? Not that this would mean anything. Mycroft just wanted to be a good big brother.

_Just_… How had he behaved towards Mycroft all this time when he had tried to be that for him, albeit in his own special and rather overbearing way? Nobody had to tell him that he’d been frankly ghastly to him for the best part of two decades. He didn’t deserve his brother’s care and, yes, affection. And still he knew he had it.

He winced when his coat was slipped off his shoulders. “Come, little brother,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet and warm. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

“What?!”

Was there a blush on Mycroft's face? “I mean, you need to dry yourself off and, well, I will see what I have for you to wear.”

“Oh. Sure. That’s… very nice of you.”

Now Mycroft was gaping at him.

“I mean, thank you,” Sherlock went the extra mile, and he was afraid Mycroft's eyes would plop out of their holes any moment.

But then the older man shook his head very briefly as if to force himself to shake off his amazement about Sherlock's untypical politeness. “No problem. Come to the bathroom and I will give you a robe and will search for some clothes for you and make tea.”

“Do you have some brandy, too?”

And this time Mycroft smiled and this smile did things to Sherlock. Suddenly he wasn’t feeling cold anymore. “I surely do. You will get both.” He didn’t ask again why Sherlock had come to him. He didn’t seem to expect any nastiness from him.

And rightly so. Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was here and what he wanted to do and it was all crazy but he knew that he would not say anything to hurt his brother. At least he would try his best.

*****

Mycroft returned with the spare robe just when Sherlock left the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Again he was almost sure to see his brother’s cheeks redden and Mycroft’s eyes darted southwards for only a second before he focused on Sherlock's face again. “Here you go.” He proceeded to hand the robe to Sherlock but Sherlock theatrically shivered and made no attempt at taking it.

A moment later Mycroft stepped forward and held it open for him. Sherlock let the towel drop to the floor and he could hear his brother swallow, and then he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the silky robe and he shuddered when Mycroft touched his arms, rubbed them even.

“You’re freezing. Let’s get you to the fireplace.”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his own voice after having been touched by those hands like he had been dreaming about. Well, not quite like he had been dreaming about… But Mycroft's innocent touch had felt so good.

On bare feet he followed his brother through the hallway and entered his large, comfortable living room. Mycroft hurried to push an armchair closer to the fireplace and Sherlock sat down, unhappy because there was no space for his brother to sit beside him.

But Mycroft was on his way already. “You need pants.” He blushed again; Sherlock could see it even in the warm glow of the fire. “And socks! Very important.”

“No three-piece-suit, please,” Sherlock rumbled and cursed himself when Mycroft winced, clearly taking this as an offence it had not been supposed to be. “I mean, they look so much better on you.”

Now Mycroft gaped at him again and Sherlock cursed every single insult he had ever thrown into his brother’s direction. “Do you still have the horrid jumper Mummy gave you last Christmas?” he changed the subject.

This damn beautiful smile appeared on Mycroft's face again. “The one with the reindeers? It must be somewhere.”

“It’s at least warm and soft,” Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft nodded.

“I will find it and gladly give it to you. And some… jog pants?”

Sherlock couldn’t really imagine his posh brother wearing jog pants but he liked the image, and it had to show on his face as Mycroft watched him with amazement. “They will do,” he agreed, and Mycroft nodded at him and smiled rather shyly before he disappeared. And returned a second later.

“The brandy! I will make tea in a moment but you really need to get warm again.” He hurried to pour a glass of amber-coloured liquid for Sherlock, and the younger brother thanked him when he took the glass.

Mycroft smiled briefly again before he left Sherlock alone. Sherlock sipped at his brandy. It was burning nicely in his throat and the hand that was holding the glass was trembling only a little bit, which was remarkable considering how shit-scared he was feeling. Hunger and exhaustion were forgotten. Something would happen. He needed it to happen.

*****

“It looks good on you.” Mycroft blushed again when he said this, and Sherlock scrutinised him.

“It’s so pretty; it would look good on everybody,” he joked and Mycroft smiled and handed him a mug with steaming hot tea.

“That’s right of course; Mummy has impeccable taste. I put a lot of sugar into it. You need it.”

Sherlock thought he needed something else, too, but he refrained from saying it. This was just crazy. For once he was being nice to his brother and they were getting along splendidly, and that was really good. He couldn’t spoil that by crossing an unspeakable line. But he caught himself at staring at Mycroft's hands. “Greetings from the cat,” he said. God, where had this come from?

“Oh. Well, thank you. Do you know who owns it?”

“No.” It was strange. It had appeared out of nowhere, and it came and went as it wanted. Closed doors seemed to not hinder it. “It shows up now and then, scratches everybody who wants to touch it except for you and then leaves again.”

“It doesn’t look homeless though.”

Mycroft really cared about the damn cat. “No. It doesn’t.” Sherlock took a deep breath and then he got up from the chair and walked around the table to sit down on the couch – next to Mycroft. “It gets a bit hot over there.” In fact it felt even hotter now…

“Oh.” Mycroft nodded and hurried to take a sip of his own tea.

_He’s nervous when I get so close to him… _“Now I’m feeling cold again,” he complained, rubbing his hands together after putting the empty mug onto the table. And damn, they were still pretty cold.

“Maybe you should return to the fireplace then.” Mycroft’s voice sounded a tad shaky.

“It’s too hot there. Can you…?” Sherlock didn’t dare continue. What was he doing here? Messing it all up between them, as always…

Mycroft was staring at him now, his eyes narrowed but his pupils blown. Sherlock returned the look – and lowered his shields, allowing a clear view at his confusion, longing, fear, and hope and all the other emotions he didn't even have names for. He had gone that far; he couldn’t back away now. He didn't want to.

Their gazes were boring into each other and Sherlock could feel his cheeks flush and his mouth get dry. He wouldn’t have been able to speak now even if a huge spider had crawled out of Mycroft's mouth and how crazy was this thought! The air was heavy with tension and there was no doubt that Mycroft had deduced what he was feeling. Not that he exactly knew it himself. Hell, of course he did...

“I can try to keep you warm,” Mycroft whispered after what felt like an eternity, and put one arm around Sherlock's shoulder, rubbing his back, and Sherlock all but melted into his touch.

Time stood still or so it seemed. Sherlock would have despised such sentimental bullshit if he had read about or had been told about it but everything seemed to come to a halt. It was just he and Mycroft that counted now, all these years of resentment and difficulties and anything else that counted in his life like his work and his friends seemed to disappear. Those wonderful long fingers, warm and firm, were stroking him, just his back and his arms, and it felt as if they were reaching through his clothes and under his skin. And then he leaned his head against Mycroft's neck and his lips lightly brushed over his throbbing carotid, and Mycroft made a noise that almost sounded like the purring of the cat, and Sherlock realised he was producing the same sound, and then he moved his lips and pressed a firm kiss onto his brother’s soft skin.

A moment later Mycroft pulled back and stared into his eyes, and Sherlock could see that he wasn’t appalled. He was shocked and surprised but there was something in his eyes that said that he had been longing for this to happen for a long time, and if that wasn't simply amazing he didn’t know what was.

“Why, Sherlock?” he asked, his voice quiet but insistent.

And of course he couldn’t explain it. Or how would ‘_I wanted to be touched by you because I saw you touching the cat and love your hands’ _have sounded? He settled for “I’m sure,” as this was what his brother really wanted to know, wasn’t it, and he was, as crazy and inexplicable this all might be, and he reached up to cup Mycroft's cheek and pull him in for a kiss, and when their lips met, Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if he had passed out _as it tasted so good felt so good felt so right so wonderful and he wanted more and needed more _and Mycroft sighed into his mouth, his arms wrapped around Sherlock, and a moment later their tongues met and Sherlock might have left consciousness for a second or two when their tongues started to dance and twirl around each other and he was feeling hot and hard and needy, and then he pulled his brother with him when he lay down backwards, and after a moment of hesitation, Mycroft followed him and covered his body with his one like he had done in Sherlock's dream.

*****

Mycroft's eyes asked _'Are you really sure you want this?'_ when he lowered his head ever so slowly. Sherlock didn’t know how he could doubt this after they had kissed for the best part of fifteen minutes, their tongues invading each other's mouths as if there was no tomorrow, and after he had almost knocked Mycroft out when he had impatiently got rid of the embarrassing jumper, pulling it over his head and throwing it to the floor. Now he was bare-chested and rock hard in his (or rather Mycroft's) pants and he was so totally sure.

He nodded fiercely. “Love me, brother. I want this.”

He didn’t blame Mycroft for looking rather dizzy after this open statement. “This is not an experiment, is it?”

Did Mycroft really think he would be so cruel? Okay, yes, probably he had every reason to doubt him. He shook his head with the same vehemence in which he had nodded before. “Not in the least. I… I'm in love with you.” There – he had said it.

Had Mycroft just discreetly pinched his own forearm? Obviously it had convinced him that he wasn't hallucinating this situation because he finally bent down and kissed Sherlock's chest.

The first moment of Mycroft's soft lips closing around his left nipple, directly over his hammering heart, made Sherlock utter a sigh that took them both by surprise. Mycroft looked up and smiled at him, and there was nothing else to do that reaching out and touching his velvety lips, making the smile deepen even more. There was an unfiltered emotion in Mycroft's eyes and Sherlock wondered how often it had been there before, completely missed by him. He had seen Mycroft looking hurt and exasperated about his behaviour, or totally indifferent and even royally upset, but this was not a new feeling for his brother, God knew for how long Mycroft had loved him like a brother usually did not. There had to have been moments when he had slipped, shown his sentiments, and Sherlock had probably seen right through it and dropped yet another nasty remark.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but Mycroft slightly shook his head and even winked at him before resuming his task of exploring Sherlock's body, and Sherlock slumped against the couch, closing his eyes, and allowed himself to enjoy being kissed and spoilt in ways he had never thought possible.

*****

He was a quivering mess when Mycroft finally reached his navel after nibbling and lapping and sucking and breathing kisses on Sherlock's chest and stomach for minutes on end. His nerve endings were on fire and his cock was so hard it had to burst anytime now.

“Please,” he mumbled, his eyelids fluttering.

Mycroft looked up to him after one last lick into his navel. “You do want to go that far on the first day?”

“Don’t care if that makes me a slut,” Sherlock grumbled and Mycroft surprised him with laughing loudly. When had he last heard that? When had he ever after growing up?

“You want me to do this?”

Sherlock groaned when Mycroft lightly rubbed over the large bulge in his trousers. “Yes!” He almost pushed Mycroft from the couch when he wiggled out of the bothersome clothes.

“Easy, brother mine.” But Mycroft was smiling and he immediately wrapped his long fingers around Sherlock's erection when the younger man silently pointed at it, and stroked up and down.

“Oh God...” Sherlock knew this would be over in a very short time but they would have time for much more later, or tomorrow, or next week.

Mycroft gave him a knowing look while masturbating him further. “Don’t fight it, little brother.”

Perhaps it even was his choice of words that drove Sherlock over the edge. He moaned incoherent words when his seed shot out of his cock, even up to his own face, and after bucking up in ecstasy he fell back on the couch like a sack of spuds. With closed eyes he shuddered through the aftermaths of an orgasm unprecedented for him and barely registered that he was cleaned up.

“What do you think – shall we go upstairs?” Mycroft asked him.

“I can’t walk now,” Sherlock mumbled and grinned with still closed eyes when he heard his brother chuckle.

“In a minute then. I’ll get us a snack, hm?”

“The only snack I want is your cock,” Sherlock said wantonly, making his brother laugh again. How could this be so easy? How had he missed all this time how great Mycroft really was?

“You might change your mind about it later,” Mycroft said and patted his shoulder. “Take your time and recover a bit, and then you can have a sandwich and my cock, whatever you like first.”

Sherlock thought there wasn’t really a question but he smiled. “As you wish, brother mine.”

“I am dreaming this, right?”

Sherlock looked into his eyes and shook his head. “You’re not. And if you’ll have me, we can be… together.”

His hand was pressed a moment later. “There is nothing I’d love more.”

They smiled at each other, and then Mycroft left the living room.

*****

Sherlock wasn’t sure how much time had passed, probably only a few minutes, when he felt a presence near him. He had closed his eyes again, still floating on his post-orgasmic high. Now he opened them and found himself eye in eye with the cat.

He swallowed, staring into those otherwordly green eyes. It wasn’t possible. Bonnie or whatever her real name was couldn’t be here, in his brother’s house.

Almost by itself his hand reached forward, and a moment later a soft, furry head nudged against it, and he stroked the little head, hearing a purr that made his hand vibrate. No hissing, no scratching this time.

“Who are you?” he whispered and the cat looked up to him and Sherlock could have sworn it was grinning.

He didn’t believe in angels or ghosts or any other irrational nonsense. But when he narrowed his eyes, he saw that his hand seemed to go right through the feline head although he could still feel the fur under his fingers. He still had a healing scratch on his hand. They had all been scratched by it, everybody but Mycroft. A ghost that felt very real for sure but still a ghost.

“This is your goodbye, hm? Mission accomplished?” Who had sent it? Who in a world he had never believed in had wanted them to be together? He would never know and perhaps he was just going mad.

But no real cat could give him such a knowing look.

He nodded. “Thank you. My brother liked you very much. Perhaps… I could get him a cat. From a shelter? No, rather two so they have each other until he comes home from work.”

Bonnie seemed to approve and licked his hand with a very rough tongue. And then she nudged her head against his fingers one more time, turned and left the room.

A moment later Mycroft appeared in the door frame, holding a plate full of sandwiches. “How you are, dear?”

Sherlock smiled. “Good. Fine.” His brother had not seen the cat. And none of them would ever see it again, Sherlock was sure.

“Ready to come upstairs with me now?”

Sherlock got up. “I am. Feed me. And then we can have a sandwich together.” He winked at Mycroft and he grinned when he was rewarded by his brother’s infectious laughter again.

They went upstairs, Sherlock's arm slung around Mycroft’s waist, and they shared the sandwiches and some hours full of passion, and Sherlock knew he would forever be grateful to his feline Cupid.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a bit of a sad ending considering the cat. But I thought it had to be a ghost cat to play this role. I like to believe it is a happy ghost :)


End file.
